Mon Pauvre, Edmond
by Merry Grace
Summary: EC, AU Edmond  Erik, cloisters himself in a small village, shunning the world, until a precocious young woman refuses to leave him alone. Will he accept her friendship or push her away? Psychological dramedy. Names changed. PLEASE R&R!
1. Prologue

Mon Pauvre, Edmond

A man sat in the parlour of his house one evening, taking his tea. The room was small, but comfortable, with a fireplace at one end, a sofa facing it some feet back, a low table in front of it. The tea things were positioned to a nicety there, and two gloriously comfortable red armchairs reposed on either side of the fireplace. It was on one of these two chairs, the right one, to be precise, in which the man was seated. His companion, a young girl of twenty-six or so, sat in the left one. Her wrists were tied to its arms.

The girl, twisting her wrists around inside the well-made rope, sighed in apparent boredom. "I have never accused you of being normal, Monseigneur," she said, "but I believe you have carried your eccentricity to...I believe  
I shall call it a straining point."

"No, you have never called me normal, but you have accused me of something far worse."

"My dear Monseigneur, what could be worse than normal?"

"I believe you will recall having called me a good man on more than one occasion, despite my attempts to convince you that I am nothing of the sort."

"Oh," the girl said, trying to quell the fear that had been slowly building in her for the past half an hour. "Is that what you are doing?" she said, heartily. "Attempting to convince me you are not good?"

""No, my dear. I am succeeding."

The girl attempted to laugh.


	2. In Which We Meet Marianne

In Which We Meet Marianne

Disclaimer: (I do not own the plot of The Phantom of the Opera, nor do I own Boussoc, and I do not claim to be historically accurate in anything I say about the village of Boussoc.)

It was just a year and a half ago when Marianne de Saint-Matthieu came to the small village of Boussoc at dusk, riding a handsome brown mare, with two bandboxes slung over her saddlebow. The child who saw her as she rode past his cottage, exclaimed that there was a strange girl riding through town. His mother, joining his side at the window, remarked at her unsightly plethora of freckles, which marred an otherwise lovely complexion, poor girl.

"But why is she here, Maman?"

"It is that she is the new schoolteacher."

"The schoolteacher does not come until tomorrow."

"She is early. If you tell le maitre she is here, he will give you a sou, perhaps."

Exclaiming an incoherent burst of delight, the child ran to the chateau of Messire le Comte du Chartier.

Shortly thereafter, du Chartier was riding his fine steed at a moderate pace, toward the old schoolhouse.

Marianne was rubbing down her mare with a handful of grass by the large oak tree which overshadowed the forlorn little school. Looking up at the sound of hoofbeats, she was met with a tall, well-muscled man, appearing to have attained his fiftieth year, who smiled warmly as he swung down from the saddle.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle. I am called Guillaume du Chartier; I am the magistrate of Boussoc."

Offering her hand, she smiled and the old comte was suddenly aware that her freckles were no longer blemishes, but ornaments, sprinkled judiciously across her nose and cheekbones, her hair, previously perceived as bushy, was now seen to be thick, lustrous, chestnut curls, which gleamed in the fading sun. Her nose also, was not just a tad too large, but showed character in its charming retrousse tilt and her firm chin showed strength of integrity.

Hazel eyes gleamed mischievously in the few seconds during which the comte was rapidly undergoing a second first impression. Having emerged unscathed from his reverie, he claimed the proffered hand and kissed it gallantly as the enchanting young lady informed him with a huge air of pleasure, "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Comte. I am called Marianne de Saint-Matthieu, I answered your advertisement for your new school."

"Yes, yes, I was, though, expecting someone a bit older…?"

She frowned in puzzlement. "I am six and twenty, Monsieur le Comte, I said so in my letter."

"You _are_ six and twenty! Of course, of course, forgive me. Well, I must now give you the key," taking this out of his pocket, "and show you the building, yes?"

"I would love to see it, Messire. Indeed, I am excessively eager to begin my duties."

Having shown her the single floored architecture, with its large front room full of desks and the small back room containing a bed, nightstand, and a singularly beautiful rocking chair, the pair stood at the door, as the comte finished his monologue.

"As you can see, a few of the windows are still cracked, the whole building needs painting and the desks are in need of repair, etc, etc. There is a man in the village who will take care of these things, but he prefers to work after evenings. He will not bother you, however, he is almost unnaturally silent when he wishes to be. A very strange man…" the comte trailed off, frowning, his eyes gleaming sadly. "Le pauvre Edmond…I think he has had a very hard time of it." Shaking himself, "You must forgive the ramblings of a man in his dotage, mademoiselle," he laughed.

"Of course, messire," she responded in kind.

Chucking her firm chin, he chuckled, called her a saucy _jeune fille_ and called out as he walked to his house, "If there is anything you require, do not hesitate to ask. Bonne nuit, mademoiselle, et avez-vous les beaux reves."

"Bonne nuit, monsieur," she called.

-

It was ten o'clock, and the few village lights Marianne could see from her fractured bedroom window had been extinguished an hour ago. Lighting the bit of candle she had saved, she ventured out with it into the schoolroom, sat behind the large oak desk at the front of the room, facing the door, and waited.

The wooden door swung open suddenly, and a very tall, almost painfully thin man entered the room, his arms loaded with bulky paraphernalia. Leaving the candle on the desk, Marianne wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and trod softly toward the man. As quiet as she thought she had been, she had not gone three steps when the man spun around so swiftly, Marianne pressed a hand to her heart and laughed aloud in her startlement.

"Pardon moi, monsieur, are you all right?"

"Who are you?" he demanded harshly.

Taken aback, she said, "I am the new schoolteacher, Monsieur."

"I am not an imbecile, I had suspected as much. What is your name and why are you disturbing my work instead of sleeping?"

Refusing to be affronted, "I am called Marianne de Saint-Matthieu, I did not know I was disturbing your work, but I am thrilled to know I may be of such use, and it is my custom to keep late hours."

He snorted. "Ladies do not keep late hours. None but whores do so."

She clapped her hands. "But you are delightfully rude!"

"Very well," he said silkily, turned and began his repairs on the windows.

Venturing closer, she asked, peering up at what she could see of the many angular planes of his face in the dark, "What is your name?"

He angled his face away from her. "De la Salle."

"The comte said your name was Edmond," she said contrarily. He did not reply.

She moved around him, attempting to see his face in the moonlight offered by the window. Quickly, he stepped back into the shadows, and lifting his chin haughtily, exploded, "Damn, Madam, you are impertinent!"

"It is mademoiselle," she said, demurely, following him. "And you are very haughty. I think I shall call you Monseigneur, if you do not object."

He continued backing away as she followed him. "Hell and damnation, why do you insist on seeing my face?!" he demanded angrily, a note of panic lacing his tone.

"It is not appropriate to curse in front of a lady," she objected. Edmond was now backed against the desk and there stopped. "But I forgive you. Why will you not let me see your face?"

He paused, his breathing agitated. "Bon," he said, softly, his body tensed. "You wish to see my face? Voila, Mademoiselle." On the word, he lifted her candle to illuminate his face.

Beneath thick dark hair and eyebrows, two parallel scars interrupted the right corners of otherwise well-molded lips and a deep-set, fudge-colored eye. Offering the other side of his face for her inspection, she discovered the corresponding eye to be un-maimed, though beyond it, painful looking burn scars grasped his jaw and side of his face, cutting into his hairline,and reached out toward his large, hooked nose. Her eyes wandering lower, she saw the large, ugly scar stretching down his neck and into his collar.

"How very interesting," she remarked.

**AN: **This is my first fanfiction story, so you should definitely review. Comments, questions, criticisms - all are welcomed with open arms.

Le maitre - the master

Messire - Archaic form of "my lord"

Monseigneur - Basically, it means my lord, but one would commonly say this to royalty.

Le pauvre - poor one, poor baby, etc.

Bonsoir - good evening

Bonne nuit - Good night

Et avez-vous les beaux reves - Sweet dreams (paraphrase) Literally, Have beautiful dreams.

I can't figure out how to do accent graves or accent aigues on my computer, so that's why they're not there when they should be. Sorry. )


	3. A Kitchen and SittingRoom

**A Kitchen and Sitting-Room**

When Marianne awoke the following morning, she discovered that a washbasin and towel on a beautifully carved cedar stand had been added to her small chamber while she slept. Edmond had continued to work when she had gone to bed, not long after she had thrown him into confusion over her mild reaction to what he plainly considered to be his horrific face.

Stretching on her bed, she laughed. "The impudence of the fellow!" she chuckled. "He came into my bedroom; I could complain to the comte. He knows it, too. I wonder if he is testing me." With that, she giggled helplessly into her pillow.

Later, after washing her face, and pinning up her unruly curls under her hat, she saddled her mare, Mercedes, and trotted over to the chateau. Riding up the long, circular drive, a groom approached her and after dismounting and handing him the reins, she tripped up to the huge front door and knocked.

"Bonjour," she said as the butler opened the door. "I am Marianne de Saint-Matthieu, the new schoolteacher. Is le Comte du Chartier at home to visitors?"

Gesturing for her to come in, the butler said as he closed the door behind her, "Le maitre usually keeps early hours when he is in the country, Mademoiselle. If you will follow me?" Leading her into a spacious saloon, the butler said, "If you will take a seat and wait here, I will see if the comte is available."

"That would be lovely," Marianne said, nearly undoing the venerable old butler with her brilliant smile. "By the way, what is your name?"

Unable to repress an answering smile, he said, "I am called Guerrier, Mademoiselle." He paused. "Shall I send for some tea while you wait?"

"Oh, I would adore some tea. I have not yet been able to procure any. Merci beaucoup, Guerrier."

"De rien, Mademoiselle. Ce sera un moment."

In the space between receiving her tea, and waiting for the comte, Marianne contemplated how best to enquire about Edmond without arousing undue suspicion. She could hardly tell the comte she had waited up for him, although she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and in fact, kept a small pistol close to hand at all times. Before she had decided how best to achieve her aim, however, the comte arrived.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle!" Coming forward, he saluted her hand. "And how are you this fine morning? I apologise, I would have come sooner, but I was taking an early ride and was just now informed of your arrival."

"It is nothing, Messire, I have been enjoying your very finely brewed tea. I must also compliment your chef, for these croissants are delicious."

"Aren't they?" he chuckled. "I pay my chef an extortionate wage, but it is worth it for his pastries and the way he has with a goose. But enough of these pleasantries, I assume you have come on business?"

"More or less, Messire. I fear I will require at least a kitchen, but also a sitting room, if that is not too much to ask. I would also like to purchase a bookcase out of my own funds, if you would direct me to a good carpenter."

"Of course, of course! What a dunce I am, to be sure! I will look over the books with my steward this afternoon to see how much we can afford, but have no worries, we will have you a kitchen and possibly a sitting room within a fortnight. In the meantime," he dug in his pocket and handed her the resultant notes, "here you are."

Taking the money without counting it, Marianne put it in her reticule and said, "Thank you so much, Messire! You are extremely kind."

"Nonsense," he said, ruefully. "If I were really kind, I would have had a kitchen for you already."

"Nevertheless, I thank you very heartily. Also, a bookcase…?"

"Ah, yes, you have only to go to Edmond de la Salle for that. However," the comte shifted, "Edmond is…well, you heard me mention him the other night. He is reclusive and…well…most of the ladies of the village do not like to associate with him. My own wife is not over fond of his presence. Perhaps you would like one my servants to commission it for you?"

"Forgive me, Messire, but I would rather do it myself. I must not be entirely dependent on you, and I would like to oversee its progress, if I may. Besides, this Monsieur de la Salle is not violent, is he?"

"No, no, at least not," du Chartier cleared his throat, "not unless…provoked."

Inwardly intrigued, she said blithely, "Well, I shan't provoke him then. Now, where may I find him?"

Still looking uncomfortable, he said, "He lives and works out of his house, which is in that clump of trees on the hill behind the schoolhouse."

"That is very far away from the rest of the village. The schoolhouse itself is removed and that hill…well, it must be at least a mile and a half away from there."

"Yes, as I said…he is very reclusive."

"Ah," she mused. Collecting herself again, she said, brightly, "Well, thank you again, Messire. I will take my leave of you. And please thank your splendid butler for the tea."

* * *

**AN: **I'm sorry it's taken me awhile to update. I also wanted to assure everyone that this is indeed an Erik/Christine fic, but I changed the names to Edmond and Marianne just because I can and because I personally was a little tired of seeing the same two names all the time. Maybe that's just me.

On another note, I wanted to clarify the genre I have put this under. Romantic dramedy was not an option, but that's essentially what this is. I will also spend a lot of time building up characters and relationships, and thence get to the drama part.

Also, it's been awhile since I've taken French, so my grammar may not always be spot on. If anyone sees any errors, I would be greatly obliged if you'd let me know.

Comments, questions and criticisms are always welcome! Please drop me a line!

Merci beaucoup - Thank you very much.

Ce sera un moment - It will be a moment.

De rien - You're welcome. Literally, It's nothing.


	4. His Voice

**His Voice**

Back at what was now her home, Marianne dismounted and led Mercedes into the small but serviceable stable.

"Ma pauvre cherie," Marianne crooned to the horse, rubbing her nose and ears, and running her hand over the long, velvet neck. "This is too small a space for you," she sighed, as she began to unsaddle her. "I fear I shall have to sell you. It is not fair to keep you in such a tiny box." Heart tightening, she kissed Mercedes quickly on the nose and left, stripping off her gloves as she exited the stable.

Entering her bedroom, Marianne stood at the door, arms akimbo, scanning the space for what she would need. "Oh, dear," she murmured, gazing at the still full bandboxes she had placed in one corner. "I shall need a wardrobe as well, or a closet, perhaps. Oh, dear," she repeated. "This is all turning out to be frightfully expensive. Well…perhaps Mercedes will help. Oh, Lord," she sighed, sitting down and burying her face in her hands. "Shall I part with my only friend? After everything else?" Sitting up straight and wiping her eyes, she said, "That is enough of this self-pity, Marianne. You chose this life for yourself and now you will make the most of it." She shook her shoulders and ruthlessly squelched the overpowering feeling of loneliness. It was a move she made often.

After measuring the square footage of the room, and jotting down some notes on what size wardrobe, or closet (if she could get one) she would need after the rest of her belongings were sent to her from Paris, in addition to making some notes on her bookcase, she checked her watch. "Perhaps I should wait until after lunch," she mused. "He was up very late last night." Pursing her lips, she sighed and finally pushed down her desire to re-acquaint herself with her eccentric neighbour. Looking at her watch again, she took out some papers, and, not bothering to change her riding habit, as she would only put it on again in two hours, proceeded to work on her lesson plans, ignoring her mother's voice protesting in her mind.

Finally, Marianne looked up from her books at the clock above the schoolroom door. Minutes later, she was back in the stable, re-saddling Mercedes. "Oui, ma cherie, nous sortons encore aujourd'hui."

-

It was not said for no reason that Edmond de la Salle was reclusive. Whether this reclusion was self-imposed or not, however, was hard to tell. If one were to ask Edmond, he would (if he replied at all), respond that he had no desire for company. He had, in fact, every desire to stay away from the public. If one were to ask the villagers, however, they would respond (probably at length) that they made it their business to stay as far away from "that strange ghost of a man" as much as possible.

What most of the villagers didn't know, though, was that Edmond was responsible for the better part of Boussoc's upkeep and kept it running efficiently, in addition to whatever other mysterious activities that kept him busy during the days and nights when he wasn't working. As to those, nobody knew with what he occupied himself, although a few of the young men who competed with each other to see how close they could get to his house before losing their nerve, whispered of music that was surely not from this plane of existence, and surely not from the one above. It haunted them in their dreams, a few of the more honest ones said. However, only the local priest knew exactly how it had affected them all.

-

Marianne dismounted Mercedes, slinging the reins over one side of the saddle, and leading her through the thick clump of trees which obscured the house of Edmond de la Salle. After making her way through the first seven feet or so of trees, growing closely together, Marianne came upon a lovely, medium sized brick house with a beautifully carved, large wooden door, and a heavily smoking chimney. Tying Mercedes' reins to a branch, Marianne lifted her skirt and walked up the path through a well-kept garden, and onto the brick steps, where she knocked on the beautiful door.

Soon, the door opened, a polite voice saying, "Bonjour, du Char – oh." The polite expression on Edmond's face turned into one of contempt. "I thought you were the comte. Clearly you are not, and yet I cannot conceive of any reason why anyone other than the comte should come to my residence."

Storing this information in her head for later use, Marianne replied demurely, "Oh, you see I _am_ the comte. Du Chartier has been pretending to be me, and I have come to claim my rightful place."

"I see," he said, his deep voice very soft and for the first time, she realized that it was not only well-modulated, but was an instrument that he employed for every occasion, his tones like warm silk caressing the ears of the listener. It was a bewitching voice and Marianne inwardly warned herself to beware of it.

Wait – was that a smile? No, it was just a twitch at the corner of his lips, but it was enough for now.

"Why have you come here?" Edmond said boredly, raising one thick, straight, scarred eyebrow.

"I do not wish to be rude," she said, stepping past him into the house, taking off her gloves one finger at a time, "but as your comte, I feel that I should have been invited in sooner."

"Do you?" he said, and for a moment, she wasn't sure if she had finally gone too far. However, he closed the door behind him and said, "Then let me atone by offering you a seat and a cup of tea."

"Why, thank you, tea and a seat would be lovely."

Gesturing for her to go ahead of him, they exited the front hall and entered an airy sitting room, where Edmond again gestured for her to sit. "If you will excuse me," he said, and exited, returning a few moments later, carrying a large silver tea-tray, laden down with all the accoutrements. Marianne wondered at the ease with which he carried it and laid it down on the coffee table, thinking how odd it was that such a thin man could be so strong.

"Well, Mademoiselle?" Edmond asked, seating himself in front of the window, so that the light was behind him. "I assume you have a reason for interrupting my afternoon? Other than to inform me that you are usurping the magistrate?"

"I am not usurping," she reminded him. "It is my rightful place. I assume I must pour my own tea?"

"Of course." Shifting in his seat, he said, "I may as well inform you now, I am not a good man, Mademoiselle. Nor am I a gentleman. This is not to say that I will take advantage of you, so you have no need to flee in fear of rape or molestation. Ah, I see I have finally rattled that smooth façade."

Marianne wiped up the tea she had spilled, heat spreading through her cheeks. "You must forgive my maidenly blushes, Monseigneur," she said, tartly.

"Ah, yes…Monseigneur," Edmond sighed resignedly.

"Why do you feel the need to inform me that you are not a good man?"

"I believe you had a reason in coming here, Mademoiselle? I am a busy man."

"Very smoothly done," she said, dryly.

His scarred brows contracted and she said quickly, "I require a bookcase."

"I see," he said, slowly, his velvety voice slinking over her.

"Also, I believe the comte will be coming to you with plans for an addition to the schoolhouse. I need a kitchen and possibly a sitting room. Also a closet."

"Of course," he mused. "And as I can hardly suppose that you would leave me alone while I do these things for you, I surmise we will be seeing more of each other."

"Do attempt to conceal your joy, Monseigneur," Marianne said, standing up and drawing on her gloves, giving him a liberal dose of her smile. "I shall think you have developed an infatuation for me." He scowled.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you to those of you who have left me reviews. I have previously been responding to those by hitting the reply button on my e-mail and it just occurred to me that that might not be working. So please let me know if you got a response and if not, then I'll make sure to rectify that. Thanks for reading! As always, comments, questions, criticisms, all are welcomed!

Ma pauvre cherie - my poor darling

Oui, ma cherie, nous sortons encore aujourd'hui - Yes, my darling, we go out again today.


	5. In Which Edmond and Marianne Reflect

**In Which Edmond and Marianne Reflect**

Edmond leaned against the mantel of the large brick fireplace, once again in his music room. It was a handsome apartment with shining wood floors, though largely bare of adornments, with only wine colored Persian rugs under the shining ebony grand piano and golden harp. A cello and a bass stood in one corner by a burgundy chair; a flute and oboe resided in a velvet lined, glass fronted cabinet above the fireplace. The room, like all of the others in his home, had large windows all facing east, away from the trees, letting in as much light as possible during the day.

To an outside observer, however, Edmond appeared oblivious to his surroundings, one elbow propped on the mantel, his gaze abnormally stern, even for him.

Uttering a dissatisfied noise, he jerked away from the empty fireplace and exited through the glass doors, slamming them behind him.

Lust was not something Edmond feared. He was as prone to it as the next man in possession of all his anatomical parts, but he had discovered at an early age that it was a weakness, although one which, however, was ultimately conquerable. With practice, he had gotten very good at it over the years.

Lust was not Edmond's current problem, though. In fact, all he knew was that her parting smile ate at something in him, but he did not know what it was or why it was happening, which bothered him more than anything else could have done.

She was not beautiful. _She is not beautiful_, he told himself. _She is positively common looking. She is no different than the thousands of other…_Then his powerful brain finally started working again, sending a flood of relief through him. "No," he murmured. "She is not precisely common."

She was, now that he stopped to think of it, almost as rude as he was; oddly independent for a young unmarried woman, and she did not have the air or the ring of a widow. She was one of the few people who had not flinched when she saw his face.

"Yes," he said, loudly. "That must be it. Yes. She is different. She is even intriguing. But she is still just a woman."

Having satisfied his logic, he tucked his emotions carefully away in the much-used and padlocked trunk in the back of his mind.

-

Late that night, Marianne shivered as she washed herself in freezing cold water. "If I had known…what a – hassle…just _washing_ would be…I would never…have come…here!" she chattered, her teeth knocking together.

Earlier, she had purchased a small but serviceable hip-bath in the village and had it delivered to her home and had then made several trips to the well out back in order to fill it. She had known it would be cold, but was still covered in the dirt from her journey and had grimly determined to wash herself.

Once through with her ablutions, Marianne leaped from the tub, dried herself quickly, tugged on her flannel nightgown, thick socks and winter shawl, and jumped under the bedclothes.

Gazing around at the candlelit room, still shivering, she felt a pang for her own home with all its luxuries and for a selfish moment, wished she could have them and the independence she had decided was so indispensable. She did not precisely repine, but definitely felt more than a twinge of loss at leaving behind her large four poster bed and bathtub with its gas furnace.

She reached out and fingered the candleholder on the nightstand behind her bed, knowing she should blow out the light soon, but instead, let her thoughts wander to her strange meeting that afternoon…

Of course she had realised almost immediately after she left that she had neglected to tell him what kind of a bookcase she would require, when she would require it and to enquire how much it would cost, and whether he could make it match the rocking chair in her room. Before this epiphany, she had been rather proud of her exit, but afterwards, she could only blush fierily. What a simpleton he must think her! A few moments' reflection calmed her embarrassment however, and she was able to laugh at herself. Now, gazing at the brass candleholder, she smiled and blushed again. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" she murmured to herself.

A frown knit her previously merry brows. There was something about Edmond…it was more than intriguing. Something about him stirred her compassion; something that made her hurt when she thought of the constant veil in his eyes. It worried her a bit that she felt so strongly for him after so slight an acquaintance.

Once again, she found herself contemplating his fear, and then bitter defiance at her discovery of his face. She wondered what kind of treatment he had met with to engender that behavior. She wondered where the scars came from. Then, thinking of the scars on his throat that disappeared beneath his collar, she wondered how much of his body was covered in similar deformities. Then she blushed.

Directing her thoughts to other channels, she pondered the paradox of her feelings for him. Her mind thought him a very interesting and intriguing specimen. Her heart was aware of some very great hurt and perhaps some danger beneath his icily sophisticated but rude façade. She did not know how to reconcile the two. What she did know was that in spite of everything, she wanted to see him again.

She blew out the light.

* * *

**A/N: **I feel like my relational and character development is coming pretty slowly, but steadily. Are you in agreement? Do you think this is the most boring thing you've ever read? Should I speed it up? Or are my Jane Austen imitations working for you? (Not that I would actually dare to imitate Jane Austen...but you know what I mean.)

No French in this one. Huh. That's weird. Oh, well.

Review, PLEASE! Comments, questions, criticisms: all are welcome!


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